Mind's Eye (11 page)

26

Münster knocked on the door and came in.

“Take a seat,” said Van Veeteren, pointing at the chair between the filing cabinets. Münster sat down and slumped back against the wall.

“It’s eleven o’clock,” he said. “Why can’t we go home and get some sleep, and continue tomorrow instead?”

Van Veeteren clasped his hands on the desk in front of him.

“People think better at night. You’ll get fat if you sleep too much. You’re already starting to get slow when you come forward to the net. A murderer is on the loose. Do you need any more explanations?”

Oh, shut up, Münster thought; but he didn’t say it.

“Coffee?” Van Veeteren asked in a friendly tone.

“Yes, please,” said Münster. “That would be appreciated. I’ve only drunk eleven cups so far today.”

Van Veeteren poured out something evil-smelling and brown from a grimy thermos flask. Handed Münster a paper mug.

“Now listen carefully, Inspector. You had better concentrate, otherwise you could find yourself sitting here all night. The hard work starts tomorrow, so it would be as well if we had some idea of what the hell we should do. Do you want to call your wife?”

Münster shook his head.

“I’ve already done so. She saw on the television that…”

“Good. Well, who’s our culprit? Our murderer?”

Münster sipped the lukewarm coffee. Pulled a face as he swallowed and guessed that it must have been brewed between twelve and eighteen hours previously.

“Does that mean that you don’t know?” Van Veeteren asked.

Münster nodded.

“That means: no, I don’t know,” he confirmed.

“Same here,” said Van Veeteren. “And I have to admit that I haven’t the slightest trace of a suspicion, either. That’s why you have to pull your socks up. Let’s start with number two!”

“Eh?”

“With the second murder, the murder of Mitter. What is the most important question?”

“Why!” said Münster.

“Correct! We can ignore for the moment when and how and if the victim emptied his bowels during the last eight hours. What we need to concentrate on is why. Why was Mitter murdered?”

“We’re assuming that it was the same killer?”

“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “If it isn’t the same one, it will be a different matter altogether. A case we won’t solve for a very long time, not using the methods we use in any case. No, dammit, it is the same person, I know it is. But why? And why just now?”

“He was warned?”

“Do you really think so?”

“But, sir, you said yourself…”

“You can drop the ‘sir’ after ten o’clock.”

“You said yourself that the murderer must have been warned by Mitter himself. That Mitter must have remembered something to do with the first murder.”

“Let us assume that I’m certain of that. Mitter informed the murderer that he remembered who he was.”

“Or she.”

“Is that likely?”

“No.”

“We’ll assume it’s a man. Next question, Münster!”

Münster scratched the back of his neck.

“How?” he said. “How did he inform the murderer?”

“Correct again! You’re on top form, Münster!”

“And why did he say nothing to the police?”

“We’ll take that later,” said Van Veeteren. “First things first. How? What do you think?”

“I…he phoned, or wrote a letter. I don’t think he sent a fax.”

Van Veeteren’s baggy cheeks twitched to form something that might have been a smile. But it was so brief that Münster was unable to decide for certain.

“He wrote,” Van Veeteren confirmed.

“How do you know?”

“Because I checked. Listen carefully, and I’ll explain. Mitter wrote a letter last Monday…the sixteenth…and it was mailed the same day. He was given an envelope, paper, and a pen by the staff. They evidently have everything locked up, and hand it out to the patients on request. If they’ve been behaving themselves, that is. Everything seems to be locked up at that place—apart from the patients, but they get pills instead, of course. Anyway, it’s clear that he sent a letter last Monday. If we assume that the murderer lives here in Maardam, or in the district, at least, he should have received it on Tuesday. He spends Wednesday waiting, and then he strikes on Thursday evening. He gets dressed up, finds a way of entering the ward, waits calmly. Hides himself for eight or nine hours—just imagine that, Münster. That bastard stays in there for eight or nine hours until it’s time, that’s what’s so impressive about this whole business. It’s not just anybody we’re dealing with, I think we ought to be clear about that.”

Münster nodded. His tiredness was fading away now, thinning out and being penetrated by concentration. He looked out the window. The silhouettes of the cathedral and the skyscrapers at Karlsplatsen were outlined against the night sky, and that feeling came slowly creeping up on him, the feeling that always turned up sooner or later in an investigation, that could keep him lying wide awake in his bed, despite being so exhausted that he was on the point of collapse. This was the challenge, this was the core of their work. The murderer was somewhere out there. One of this town’s 300,000 inhabitants had taken it upon himself to kill two of his fellow human beings, and it was his duty, and Van Veeteren’s and all the rest of them, to nail the man—or the woman. It was going to be one hell of a job, in fact. They would work for thousands of hours before the case was closed, and when they eventually had all the answers, it would become clear to them that nearly everything they had done had been a complete waste of time. They would realize that if only they’d done this or that right away, they would have cracked it in two days instead of two months.

But this was only the beginning. So far they knew virtually nothing. There was only Van Veeteren and him shut up in this messy office, hemmed in by questions and answers and guesses in a slow but inexorable search for the right track. If they didn’t find it, if they took a wrong turning at the very beginning—well, it could be that two months from now they would be sitting around in this very same room with their thousands of wasted hours and no murderer. This was the millstone around their necks: finding themselves at the far end of a cul-de-sac, knowing that they would have to walk all the way back. And it was always the first turning that was the most important one.

“We made a mistake,” said Van Veeteren, as if he’d been able to read Münster’s thoughts. “We jailed Mitter, and now he’s dead. The least we can do for him is to get the right man this time.”

“One thing has struck me,” said Münster. “They’re so different, these two murders. Assuming it is the same killer, that is. This second one is so much more…professional than the first one. Perhaps Mitter was even a witness to the first one. That seemed to be unplanned…random. This second one is so much more…ice cold.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Yes, I know. He’s acquired a taste for blood, he’s learned a thing or two. But let’s go back to that letter. Are you with me?”

“Of course.”

“Mitter writes a letter to the murderer, to the person he suspects had something to do with the death of his wife…”

“Stop!” said Münster. “How do you know that he really did write to the murderer? Why couldn’t it have been an ordinary letter to…to a friend?”

“We’ve started checking,” said Van Veeteren, inserting another toothpick into his mouth. “But the investigation isn’t quite finished yet. None of those close to him has received a letter—his ex-wife, his children, or his good friends. There are a few we haven’t managed to get hold of yet: Petersén and Stauff are working on that. But I don’t think they’ll find anybody.”

“But couldn’t that indicate…”

“Yes, of course it’s very possible that the murderer is one of those; but I don’t think it will do any harm if he is made aware that we are not a bunch of idiots. If we then pin him down a week or two from now, all we have to do is nail him. There’s nothing like a murderer who’s been kept on tenterhooks for a while.”

Münster nodded.

“Back to that letter,” said Van Veeteren. “Let’s assume it is in fact a letter to inform the murderer about something. Questions, Münster!”

“Well, the address, of course. Could somebody have checked the address? But I don’t suppose so…”

“Absolutely right! Those blind idiots who run Majorna haven’t seen a thing! Not a single letter! Even though somebody was standing over Mitter as he wrote, watching him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Either they keep a check on letters written for reasons of security, or there’s some weirdo writing a dissertation—the link between schizophrenia and left-handedness, who cares! The important thing—and listen carefully to this, Inspector, because it’s crucial—Mitter is given paper, pen, envelope, and stamp by a nurse, he sits down in the assembly hall—yes, that’s what they call it—and writes his letter. It takes no more than ten minutes; he hands it to the nurse who posts it in the box outside the entrance when he goes home two hours later. Until then, he’s been carrying it around in the pocket of his working jacket. Is that all clear?”

“Of course.”

“What strikes you about it?”

Münster closed his eyes. Leaned his head against the wall and thought about it.

“I don’t know…”

“The address.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think, Münster, for Christ’s sake! If you can’t work this one out, I’ll never support your application for promotion!”

“Of course: How did he know the address?”

“Of the murderer, yes.”

“Address book?”

“No. He didn’t have one with him. Not anywhere in the hospital.”

“Telephone directory?”

“There isn’t one in the assembly hall.”

“And he stayed in there all the time?”

“The nurse was standing outside, keeping an eye on him. Never let Mitter out of his sight—don’t ask me why. There are glass doors between the rooms. He smoked two cigarettes, he said. Evidently a five-minute brand…”

“If the nurse was being that careful, surely he could have taken a look at the letter as well.”

Van Veeteren grunted.

“Do you think I haven’t explained that to him? Mind you, it’s by no means sure that that would have helped us: he didn’t seem all that good at reading. He’s the sort of he-man who can overturn a locomotive, but doesn’t know which end of a pen to hold downward.”

Münster smiled dutifully.

“Enough of that,” said Van Veeteren. “Nobody has seen what Mitter wrote on the envelope. He had no help from an address book or a telephone directory or anything else. So that means…”

“That he knew the address by heart. Oh, shit…”

“I’m coming to the same point, though I have to say I get there a bit faster. How many addresses do you know by heart, Münster?”

Münster pondered that one.

“Count them!” said Van Veeteren.

“My own,” said Münster.

“Bravo,” said Van Veeteren.

“My parents’…”

“And?”

“My childhood address in Willby…”

“Too old.”

Münster hesitated.

“My sister’s in Hessen—I think.”

He paused.

“Oh, and police HQ, of course,” said Münster eventually.

Van Veeteren felt for a new toothpick, but he’d evidently run out.

“Finished?” he asked.

Münster nodded.

“You’re forty-two years old and have learned four addresses by heart. Well done, Inspector. I could only manage three. What conclusion do you draw from that?”

“He wrote to somebody…very close to him.”

“Or?”

“To himself?”

“Idiot,” said Van Veeteren. “Or?”

“Or to his workplace.”

Van Veeteren clasped his hands behind his head and stretched himself out on his desk chair.

“Bunge High School,” he said. “Fancy a beer?”

Münster nodded again. Van Veeteren looked at the clock.

“If you give me a lift home, you can buy me a glass of beer on the way. I think Kraus’s place will be best.”

Münster wriggled into his jacket.

I suppose he’s doing me a favor, he thought.

“It’s Friday already, dammit!” Van Veeteren announced as they elbowed their way through to the bar.

Carrying two foaming tankards, he wriggled into an almost nonexistent space between two young women on a bench. He lit a cigarillo, and after a couple of minutes there was room for Münster as well.

“Bunge or a good friend,” said Van Veeteren. “And we can no doubt forget about the good friends. Any snags?”

“Yes,” said Münster. “At least one. An unusual name.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you have an unusual name, letters get through to you no matter what. Dalmatinenwinckel, or something like that…”

“What the hell are you on about?”

“Dalmatinenwinckel. I once had a girlfriend called that. It was enough to write her name and the town; a street address wasn’t necessary.”

“A good job you didn’t marry her,” said Van Veeteren. “But I expect you’re right. We’d better send somebody to check at the post office.”

He drank deeply and smacked his lips in appreciation.

“How are we going to go about it?” Münster asked. He suddenly felt exhausted again. He was slumped down in a corner of the bench, and the smoke was making his eyes hurt. It was already half past one. If he added up the time it would take them to drink the beer, then to drive V.V. home, drive out to his own suburb, get undressed, and take a shower, he concluded that it would be three o’clock at the earliest before he could snuggle down beside Synn….

He sighed. The thought of Synn was much more persistent than the murder chase just now: still, no doubt that was a healthy sign, when all was said and done.

“You can take Bunge,” said Van Veeteren. “You and Reinhart. I suppose you won’t be able to get started before Monday.”

Münster nodded gratefully.

“The letter is the first thing, of course. It’s possible that we won’t be able to track it down at all, obviously, but if we have an amazing stroke of luck…Well, if somebody remembers it, we’ll know. We’ll have him, Münster, and it’ll be all over there and then!”

Münster said nothing.

“But I don’t think we’re going to have an amazing stroke of luck; I can feel it in my bones. Check the mail procedures at the school in any case—who sorts out incoming mail, if they put stuff in different pigeonholes, that kind of thing. You’ll get an envelope from Majorna to take with you, of course, but there’s nothing special about it, unfortunately. It looks like any other bloody envelope. And be careful—it’s not necessary for all and sundry to know about this letter.”